


Control

by Karasuno Volleygays (ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor)



Series: Valentine's Kisses 2019 [36]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Aged Up, Established Relationship, General Filth, M/M, Rough Sex, Toys, recreational scolding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 03:50:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBeOrNotToBeAGryffindor/pseuds/Karasuno%20Volleygays
Summary: Nothing made Atobe feel more in control than making sure Tezuka lost his wholly and completely.





	Control

A ragged groan tore from Atobe’s throat when the coarse leather strips cracked against his backside. “Mmm, harder. You can do better than that.”

“You’ll regret saying that when you spend all day sitting at your desk tomorrow,” Tezuka scolded, but both of them knew Tezuka was going to do whatever Atobe asked — no,  _ demanded _ — of him. 

It wasn’t something they did often; after all, their lives were both busy in radically different ways. However, whenever they got around to having a lazy Sunday together, the standard rules of the bouts of lovemaking they managed to squeak in here and there no longer applied.

From the time he was born, Atobe got everything he wanted. Some of it was handed to him, courtesy of his father’s buckets of money, and others he worked his ass off for. But they were his, and he didn’t accept failure as an outcome.

Tezuka was more of the suffering in silence type, who would bite back every ache and pain and complaint in order to fulfil someone else’s dream, even if it meant sacrificing his own. It was his worst quality by far, and Atobe had spent the better part of ten years grinding it out of him. 

Here and there, though, Atobe wanted to see that proud lion who always protected his pride come to life and smash his face into a pillow. That was where the difficulty tended to lie. Tezuka was dismissive of his own pleasures, instead reaping small amounts of satisfaction in giving pleasure to his partner. 

How irritating of him, really.

Slowly but surely, however, the blows to Atobe’s soon-to-be bruised skin rained down harder each time. Atobe’s cock was drizzling into their pricey-but-not-too-pricey-because-Tezuka-doesn’t-like-spending-other-people’s-money sheets, and he yearned to be wrecked even more. 

It had been a shock, to say the least when, in the course of discovering their rather torrid attraction to each other physically, Atobe discovered that Tezuka really,  _ really _ enjoyed seeing marked skin. Trails of love bites down his entire torso had not clued him in, but when Tezuka had come home to Atobe enjoying a good spanking (courtesy of a very adept dominatrix he employed here and there when the mood struck him), something almost unhinged had roared to life inside Tezuka.

Rough, almost brutal fingers had pried Atobe open, stealing his breath and most of his control. He came quickly while Tezuka thrashed into him, and his whines from the oversensitivity only made it painfully, richly exquisite.

So that was a thing, and now it was their thing.

Tezuka was probably right; his upcoming start of the work week would definitely be miserably spent trying not to sit too hard, but he wouldn’t regret a single second of it. Not when he got to see his partner try and fail to be gentle before he was reduced to animalistic fucking Atobe would spend weeks looking forward to.

And with every heady blow, Atobe could feel the control slipping away and he had to fight the urge to palm himself until he came at the thought of it. Nothing was as utterly erotic as watching the most put-together person he had ever known de-evolving a few eons.

The skin on his rear hot and stinging, Atobe was almost ready to beg off when Tezuka stopped. A hefty toy was slapped on the headboard by its suction cup, and Atobe shivered. It was an excellent day already, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

He knew what Tezuka wanted, and he did it. Atobe’s lips wrapped around the dong’s borderline intimidating girth, and he thrust it over and over into his throat until his entire esophagus felt raw while Tezuka worked him open. 

Atobe was never quite sure what part of this got Tezuka off so much. Whether it was seeing Atobe ruined or just quiet for a change, he didn’t know, but the benefits of it were staggering. Fingers roughened by two decades of tennis rasped at his insides, and Atobe pounded the back of his throat with the dong in reply.

So he liked sucking dick. A lot. Maybe Tezuka just liked watching him do it. Atobe’s thoughts weren’t too focused on that concept, though, because the head of Tezuka’s cock was pressing against his ass and nothing else mattered. No painful Monday or boring Tezuka or thinking in general could penetrate the haze of pure lust encompassing them both.

Thrust after thrust churned Atobe’s insides, and more than once he pulled away from his own task to hiss obscenities like punctuation. He was losing his control and Tezuka was losing his, and if that wasn’t worth a few chants of ‘fuck me, fuck me, ruin my pretty little ass’, then what was?

Dirty talk was rocket fuel for Tezuka’s libido, and Atobe was fisting his own cock in earnest as Tezuka railed into him like some megane sex monster. 

Ooh, there was an idea. He didn’t know if Tezuka would go for the idea of dressing up like a monster (one of the fuckable ones like Venom or the fish man from The Shape of Water, not Godzilla or something crass like that) while Atobe donned the cinematic uniform of every damsel in distress ever written. He even toyed with the idea of having someone photograph them doing that, but he didn’t think Tezuka’s willingness to indulge him would go that far.

So home video it was, a reserve for the times when Atobe needed a good orgasm and had no Tezuka around to give him one. That was something Tezuka had more or less granted blanket permission for Atobe to do. Of course he denied doing it, but Tezuka jacked off to the videos when he was on the road alone, as well.

Damn, he wished he had had the foresight to record this one. 

Tears streamed down Atobe’s face from the prolonged pressure on his throat, exacerbated by Tezuka’s violent thrusts pushing him hard into the headboard. He wanted to come, oh god did he ever, but he knew he had to hold off until Tezuka started searching for his own release at a more frenetic pace. He pinched off the base of his cock and let Tezuka ride him like a maniac. 

Once the slap of Tezuka’s hips on Atobe’s raw ass started to stutter into an uneven cadence, Atobe released his grip and worked his length with almost painful force. He bit the rubber cock and wrenched it off the headboard, gasping for oxygen while lewd cries tore from his lips. 

Tezuka came inside of him  _ hard, _ and just like that, Atobe let himself give in to bliss. Panting and aching and grinning like a fool, he slumped down and nuzzled the pillow, ass still firmly stuck in the air to holster Tezuka’s flagging cock. He whimpered when Tezuka pulled out, which turned into a gasp when the cool metal of a plug worked its way into his hole to bottle up three lonely weeks’ worth of come and lube.

And like a switch turned off, Tezuka was himself again. Dutiful hands sponged away streaks of wetness (saliva, come, lube, sweat — one or all of them in some various combination) from his thighs and and ass. The soiled top sheet was gently tugged off the bed, leaving a more or less clean Atobe sprawled out on the bed with an assful of Tezuka and an absurd grin on his face. 

Moments later, Tezuka returned to his side, curling up against Atobe’s back and wrapping arms around him. He didn’t mind this part, either, the soft and cuddly times that bore such a striking dissimilarity to Tezuka’s beastly bouts of nasty sex. 

Yet it was just as much a part of them as discussing the pro tour results over breakfast or arguing about whether a gold-plated toilet handles were too extra even for Atobe. He wanted all of it, even the infuriating times when he had to bully Tezuka into taking what he wanted for a change.

Lips brushed against the curve of Atobe’s shoulder, and the gooier side of Tezuka started to ooze out. “I can bring breakfast up to you if you’d like.”

Atobe scoffed. “Nonsense. I pay people to do that for us.”

Tezuka leaned over and whispered hotly over Atobe’s ear, “But no one else is allowed to see how ruined you are but me.”

“Fair point,” he croaked, and he eased back into the plush recesses of the bed while Tezuka fetched something to eat. Of course, he knew after that much sex that Atobe would be famished, and he would be correct that morning, as well. 

The only thing reminding him that this erotic trip of a morning was indeed real was the insistent swell of the plug inside of him. It foretold the promises of the rest of the day, reserved for nothing at all — no stock market, no paperwork, no tennis, no responsibility, no anything else — except each other.


End file.
